At first glance, Alexandra Percival Howard Rammikin (technically the Third, though that had been passed to her brother when he was born) could pass for a somewhat "pretty" young boy in her short mousy hair cut in a 'pageboy' style, white shirt, brown trousers and vest, and grey-brown cap. She had the tall, thin, somewhat gangly physical proportions of a teenage boy too, and the spectacles perched atop her nose helped hide her lashes. Her cheeks clung desperately to the last roundness of childhood, and were spattered with an adorable constellation of freckles. When she smiled, which was often (if bemusedly), she had dimples. Her hands were long fingered, but her fingers had the delicate calluses common to those that worked on small crafts; clockwork, gemcutting, and the like.
She was sitting at a small wood table away from the hubbub at the center of the common room, in a corner that might have been dark except for the small white flame that licked up from a small iron bar sitting on the tabletop. Alex was nursing a mug of what was, by the absent grimace on her face, some of Dorin's famous ale. A bowl of stew was on her left side, an open book on her right. Her attention was focused on the book, even as she sipped at the ale.
Sitting on the table at her left, near the stew and, in fact, slurping greedily at the stew, was what looked like a tiny dragon, glittering in shades of blue and violet and all manner of hues in between. It was perhaps the size of a modest tabby, not counting its serpentine tail that curled off the table's edge and out of sight. Other objects were scattered between the dragonling and the book as well...strange, senseless contraptions of yellow copper and brass, of wire and coil and spring. Some of them glowed with unhealthy greenish eldritch gleams. Others twitched and spasmed like tiny dying animals, apparently of their own volition. Occasionally Alex would nudge one with a finger, watch it for a moment, and scribble a note into the margin of the book with a quill that had almost lost its feathering from use.
Though she takes little notice of the inn around her, astute observation shows that the dragonet is alert enough for two. Even as it gobbles at the stew, its tiny orange-gold eyes flick around the room, watching anyone who gets close, and focusing momentarily on anyone who passes through the door.
Seriously, this is the inn the party were staying at, and anyone else who is not a native of Highdale would likely be here as well. In addition, the Mastiff sells the excellent ale brewed by Dorin, who is Simon the miller's wife.
